


If I Claim to Be a Wise Man

by VerityBrown



Category: Supernatural, The Shannara Chronicles (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 03:25:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6498949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerityBrown/pseuds/VerityBrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allanon and Princess Pyria Elessedil seek desperately to find a surviving heir of Jerle Shannara to wield the only weapon that can destroy the Warlock Lord-a powerful vengeful spirit bent on taking over the world. Looking for an alternative plan, the Druid finds an ancient Elven magic...which drags Sam and Dean Winchester forward in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Men on Quests

**Author's Note:**

> This story started with the tiniest of plot bunnies: a connection between the Men of Letters bunker and the ancient materials at the Druids’ Keep, which had the delightful effect of making Sam and Dean sort of proto-Druids...killing monsters, saving people. But it took Supernatural episode 11.14, "The Vessel," to spark an idea for the mechanism of pulling Sam and Dean 3,000+ years into the future. It can be assumed that this story takes place after that episode, at some logical point of one’s choosing.
> 
> The Shannara Chronicles played pretty fast and loose with Shannara universe lore in retelling the events of The Elfstones of Shannara (book 2 of the Shannara series). Consequently I’ve taken the same approach to this story, which relates to the events of The Sword of Shannara (book 1 of the Shannara series). The Shannara Chronicles left a breadcrumb trail of clues about what took place 30 years before, and I tried to follow it, embellishing with Shannara universe lore just as fast-and-loosely as possible.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

“I think I may be onto something,” Sam said. He dropped a thick file on the table next to Dean’s plate. “It occurred to me that maybe we _do_ already have something right here in the bunker that we could use against Amara.”

“Didn’t they spell ‘fairy’ wrong?" Dean pointed at the label on the Men of Letters file folder, which read ‘Faerie Artifacts.’ He swallowed his mouthful of blackberry pie.

“It’s an alternative spelling.” Sam picked up the file impatiently and opened it. “It seems to be used particularly when referring to the way the fairy dimension intersects with ours. The point is that the Men of Letters have been collecting bits and pieces of Faerie stuff for centuries.”

“And you think something like _that_ can handle the sister of God?”

“You know how powerful the fairies we’ve run into have been,” Sam said. “And we’re talking about an alternate dimension here. It’s possible that Amara wouldn’t be able to defend against a power source from another dimension.”

Dean’s skeptical expression shifted into a thoughtful one. “So you’re saying if we can’t break down a wall, we dig under it?”

“Exactly.” Sam had been leafing through the file, but now he stopped. “This, for instance. Most of these things seem kind of low-level, but this one...”

Dean looked at the page his brother was pointing to. “What the hell is an Elfstone?”

 

* * *

 

There had to be a solution, but Allanon was no longer sure he could find it here, in the ruins of the Druids’ Keep. Still, he kept searching, uncertain what else to try.

He had woken from the Druid Sleep with the screams of the first victim ringing in his mind, knowing that the Warlock Lord had returned, just as his mentor, Bremen, had warned him would occur. What he had not anticipated was that the Warlock Lord would move so very quickly to neutralize the only threat to his existence: an heir of Jerle Shannara. Without a Shannara heir to unlock its magic, the weapon that Bremen had created to defeat the Warlock Lord was useless; the sword might as well remain locked in its vault in Arborlon for the rest of eternity. And already, all the known heirs were dead.

Allanon had not given up entirely on that means of defeating the Warlock Lord. The heirs of Shannara no longer sat on the Elven throne; had not done so in over 200 years. There would be unregarded younger sons and daughters in that line whose royal lineage had been forgotten. But finding them was a task that could take months, if not years, and the Druid had weeks at best before the Warlock Lord’s new army would descend to enslave the people of the Four Lands. So he had left that task in the hands of royal archivist and set out to find some alternative means of destroying the Warlock Lord.

As he sifted through piles of debris, his thoughts, usually sternly disciplined, drifted to the archivist...her head bent over her work, her eyes flashing at some sudden insight, her lithe limbs propelling her up ladders or between racks of scrolls to find the document she was seeking. Eventine Ellesedil, current king of the Elven people, had hinted that his sister had retreated into the archives as a shelter from some heartbreak in her youth. But Pyria had given no impression of being a reclusive hermit; instead, she seemed to be in her element.

And her breath had caught in her throat when he had come into the room.

Not that it should have made any difference. She was hardly the first woman whose thoughts had taken an uncomfortable turn in his presence. He had learned simply to block them out as a matter of course, relying on the discipline Bremen had instilled, remembering sternly that a Druid’s life did not allow for the complications of a relationship that lasted longer than a single night.

But Pyria had silenced her own thoughts. That should not have mattered either. She was no conventional beauty, with that sarcastic quirk at the corner of her mouth, and her dark hair pulled back for practicality, exuding competence instead of the more typical female desire to attract the eye. It was troubling beyond measure that he _had_ been attracted. And that he had found it difficult to pretend otherwise each time he had gone to consult with her. Or to pretend that she was altogether successful at hiding her feelings when she was not.

_I have no time for this_. Allanon wrenched his thoughts back forcibly to the task at hand. Hidden throughout the Druids’ Keep were artifacts of magic, many of them from before the Great Wars. Even Bremen had not been certain what all of them were, or where the remaining Druids at the time of the Keep’s fall had concealed them. But if there remained any chance of fighting the Warlock Lord without an heir of Shannara, it was here.

_Here_. The faintest draft of magic whispered through a hairline crack between two flagstones. The bones of some former Druid were spilled across the stone that hid something he had probably died to protect. Allanon murmured a chant of respect as he gently swept the bones aside. Then he summoned magic to raise the stone, bracing himself against the burn it always produced. The palm along the base of three fingers on his left hand this time. It would heal, as always, but in the meantime it stung like fire.

The recess in the floor was filled with sacking material. Allanon lifted it out gingerly, cautious of disturbing something dangerous in its folds, but nothing more hazardous than dust came out with it. Underneath, at the bottom of the recess, was a metal box, wider than it was tall. Allanon held the torch closer to examine the lid, still wary of protections that might have been placed to protect whatever it contained. And there was, indeed, a sigil on the lid. But not of the kind that would release a warding spell.

He scarcely dared to believe it.

It was a star with six points, designed, like most star sigils, to be drawn in a single stroke. But this was a mark he had seen only a few times. Bremen had told him that it identified items from an ancient treasure trove: a collection of knowledge and artifacts that had survived the Great Wars, which the first Druids had hoped would contain the scientific knowledge necessary to rebuild everything that was lost in that cataclysm. It had failed them in that regard, sending them deeper into the study of magic instead. But the artifacts....

Some of them were deadly, particularly without the information that identified and catalogued them. Allanon looked around him in despair, realizing how unlikely it was that he could find any of that information in the rubble. But he had no choice but to investigate what the box contained. He had come here knowing the risks of meddling in lost secrets.

He lifted the box out carefully, noting its weight and the slight shifting inside of whatever it contained. Something loose—no, several smaller items, but padded enough not to move far. Looking around again, he made a decision. Daylight could either activate or diminish some types of magic, and he wanted closer access to it than he had here.

He made his way toward the entrance, stopping just short of the stronger light spreading from the arch, where a fallen stone block provided a rough working surface on which to place the ancient box. Fortunately the clasp required no key, although two small loops suggested that at one time it might have been protected by a small padlock.

Hardly the protections one would place on a truly dangerous artifact. But that meant that whatever was inside might be worthless to him. Struggling against a surge of impatience, he undid the clasp and slowly opened the lid.

The padding material was silk, in a dazzling variety of colors. Upon closer inspection, it appeared that each wad of silk was wrapped around an object...or objects. Allanon painstakingly tugged at the folds of the wad of yellow silk, attempting to reveal what it held without spilling or touching the contents. His efforts were rewarded when small, smooth stones, seemingly made of glass, came into view. Just three stones in the hollow of the cloth.

_Impossible_.

Bremen had spoken of Elfstones once, describing how their magic drew upon the heart, the body, and the soul of the wielder—one aspect for each stone—as an example of the many means by which magical power could be channeled. But because only an Elf could use them, and because they were not catalogued anywhere in the royal collections in Arborlon, even Bremen had believed them to be lost.

They had been here all along. And not merely one set, to judge by the number of colors shimmering in the box. If Elves could be found who were capable of wielding each set, the combined power might be enough to give the Four Lands a chance against the Warlock Lord, heir or no heir.

For the first time in weeks, Allanon felt a surge of hope.

Of course, it might not be that simple, he warned himself. Logic suggested that each set might have unique properties of its own, and those properties might affect whether any given set could be used for the kind of combat they were facing. It was also possible that each set might be attuned only to a certain combination of characteristics of heart, mind, and spirit. The notion of lining up dozens, even hundreds, of Elven volunteers who were willing to risk the effects of magic was a daunting prospect.

But they were Elfstones. Which meant that somewhere, buried in the royal archives in Arborlon, there might be more information about them than he had any chance of finding here. _More time to spend with Pyria_ , whispered that persistent urge. An urge that was increasingly involving his body as much as his mind.

_And his heart?_ the urge whispered.

Crossly, he began sorting through the colored bundles, trying to determine if all the sets were complete. He was no longer afraid of touching the stones—they could have no possible effect on a Human, even one who commanded Druid magic. Holding each one up to the light, he noted the translucent stones were colored, matched to the silk to that contained them.

He realized that the black bundle was different the moment he hefted it. There was no quiet clicking of stone against stone, and there was only one shape inside the cloth. He untangled the wrapping anxiously, wondering if this was an incomplete set, or perhaps some other artifact altogether.

No, it was a glass stone like the others, except larger. And much, much darker, in every sense. It tugged his hand to grasp it before he could resist, and then it tugged at his magic, as if it were trying to draw the power out of his body and into the stone.

Horrified— _but I’m not an Elf_ —he wrenched the power back. It was a more difficult struggle than he expected. His magic was entangled in something inside the stone. Unable to afford to lose any part of it— _not now_ —he jerked hard on the cord of his magic, feeling suddenly as if whatever might be on the other end were the oldest grandfather fish that had broken his line time and time again in the river of his childhood.

_Not. This. Time._

Something broke loose, and then everything was rushing towards him, power and all. His last clear thought was that he was helpless against whatever he might have drawn through the stone. Then something softish but heavy fell on him, knocking out everything that remained of his breath, and darkness claimed him.

 

* * *

 

While Dean went through the cabinet looking for a match to the identification code, Sam spouted information from the file.

“Back in the Renaissance, the Men of Letters went on...well, a sort of quest to recover all the Elfstones, so they couldn’t be used against humans. Some of them even went into the fairy dimension looking for the stones, and not all of them made it back.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Dean said. He pulled a large manila envelope, deformed with the thick, rectangular shape inside, from the back of the cabinet. “Here we go.”

Upstairs on the main worktable, Dean slid a metal box, roughly the size and shape of cashbox, out of the envelope. It bore the Men of Letters symbol on the lid. He examined the small padlock on the clasp. “Key?”

Sam detached it from the prongs of the Elfstones document and handed it to his brother. Dean was about to fit it into the lock when he paused. “If these stones were meant to be used against _humans_ , how does that help us?”

“I don’t think they were, exactly,” said Sam. “According to the lore the Men of Letters were going off of at the time, the different colors of stones had different properties, but all of them had a similar power,” he located the passage with his finger, “‘to destroy the wielder’s enemies.’ See, during that period, there were a lot of incursions from the fairy dimension, which is why there are all these references to fairies in the literature of the time, like Shakespeare’s _Midsummer Night’s Dream_. So the Men of Letters back then were trying to round up any and every kind of Faerie artifact that could be turned into a weapon.”

Dean had proceeded to unlock the box, and now he lifted the lid. Inside was a rainbow of cloth bundles. “I assume the colors match the packaging? How do they work?”

“Well, supposedly they don’t, not for us,” Sam admitted. “Except that one.” He pointed to the black bundle.

Dean turned a quizzical expression on his brother. “Wait, they don’t work?”

“The lore says you have to be an Elf. And I mean specifically an Elf, not any other kind of fairy creature. But the Black Elfstone was different. It’s supposed to absorb magical power, regardless of its source. I thought,” Sam said, “that it might be able to absorb Amara’s power.”

“So we just have to get it near her?” Dean lifted the black bundle from the box and began unwrapping the shape inside. “Or does it actually have to come in contact with her?”

“No idea.” Sam shrugged. “Nothing in the file, anyway.”

“Great,” said Dean, staring down at the glassy black stone cradled on the dark fabric in the palm of his hand. “Got any ideas for testing it?” Although he hadn’t precisely intended to do so, he found himself reaching out a finger to caress the smooth, rounded surface. He recognized that he had made a mistake as his muscles turned into flimsy rubber bands, and he sagged against the table.

“Dean!” Sam grabbed his arm, but that only made what was happening worse. It was as if the stone was drawing something from Sammy through him.

“We don’t have any magic!” Dean pointed out weakly, accusingly, but the stone wasn’t listening, and now he couldn’t let it go.

“I can’t...” Sam gasped, his eyes clenched shut, his face taut with concentration. In all his struggles with the demon blood, he had never felt anything like this; when he had lost that power after the apocalypse was averted, it had simply faded. This felt as if the stone was drawing him in, in some way he was powerless to resist. Then the sensation began to change, turning instead into a whirlpool that was sucking him down, and he realized there was a consciousness on the other side of it. Once he might have been able to fight back, but the skills were disused. _The magic was supposed to be gone!_

Something snapped, and the brothers were falling...falling...falling.

The landing, when it came, hurt.


	2. Men Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Black Elfstone is a real artifact from the Shannara universe, with roughly similar properties to the ones in this story, although I’ve changed the lore a bit for my own purposes. Not much else to say about this chapter. Enjoy. :~)

Consciousness returned to Allanon with the sound of groaning and an easing of the weight across his chest, as if someone had rolled off.

Or some _thing_. Whatever had been drawn through the stone. Allanon scrambled backward and upright, trying to focus his eyes in spite of the pain that hammered behind them, fumbling for the hilt of his sword.

“Sammy?” said the groaning voice to his left. A man’s voice, not the growl of a monster. Its owner was trying to rise to a seated position, and although he appeared to be a fit man in his middle years, he was having evident difficulty. “Sammy!”

The man’s desperate thoughts cut deeper into Allanon’s mind than the shout did into his ears. Brothers, and this was the elder of the two, who would not let anything happen to the younger.

A similar groaning to the Druid’s right brought an even more stabbing surge of relief from the elder. It took all the control of his gift that Bremen had been able to instill to bring the volume of the thoughts down to a bearable level.

“Dean, I’m here,” gasped the voice on the right—the younger brother, not even attempting yet to move from his prone position. “You okay?”

“Maybe. That was a hell of a ride.” The older brother had finally succeeded in levering himself to a sitting position. He peered in the direction of the voice. “What about you?”

“Okay, I think. But yeah—hell of a ride. Where are we?”

The older brother brushed his hand across his eyes. It must have helped because he began looking around, baffled at the ruins. The man’s confusion became tinged with fear as he noticed the stranger—a vague sense of _oddly dressed_ was all Allanon could make of the thoughts, although they were more specific than that and involved a momentary flash of a red-haired woman and a battle with blunted weapons. Curiously, the man and his brother were not clothed significantly differently from most humans—and they did seem to be humans, though the younger brother’s hair was long enough to put the matter in doubt.

“Not in Kansas anymore,” said the older brother. He locked his eyes on Allanon’s, trying to determine what this stranger might do. It was clear from his thoughts that he was accustomed to fighting things that did the unexpected and were not always what they seemed. He rose to his feet and assumed a fighting stance, still wobbling, but only slightly.

“Ha ha,” answered the younger brother, sitting up with an ease that showed either the benefits of taking his time regrouping, or perhaps only his fewer years. He was sitting with his back to Allanon, but one look at his brother brought him to his feet, whipping around to face a common foe.

“Where are we?” the older brother demanded.

But Allanon had questions of his own. “Who are you?”

Their names almost jumped out of the elder’s thoughts. Interestingly, the younger’s were more guarded.

“Nah, you go first,” said Dean.

Impatient now that his strength was coming back, Allanon triggered the magic of his sword. He lifted the satisfactory heft of it and pointed the tip in the direction of one brother and then the other. “Dean Winchester. Sam Winchester. But that does not answer the question of what manner of men you are or how you came to be here.”

“How do you know our names?” Dean asked, angry as well as wary. And impressed—almost enviously so—with the Druid’s sword.

Sam’s eyes had been darting around. “What is this place? Did we get pulled into Faerie?”

“Faerie? No, that no longer exists.” Another piece of the puzzle, though. “This is the Druids’ Keep and you are in the Four Lands.”

“Wow, and _that_ doesn’t sound like some fairy dimension thing,” Dean said sarcastically.

“Those aren’t any places we know about.” Sam’s tone was placating, as if to make up for Dean’s sarcasm. He was still replaying the unfolding of the sword in his mind.

“What do you know of that?” Allanon redirected the sword’s point toward the black stone that lay on the floor between them, next to its jumbled cloth. He realized with abrupt unease that he could feel none of the burns that were the usual price of his magic.

Sam furrowed his brow. “The Black Elfstone?”

“Yes.”

“You think that’s what brought us here?” Sam’s voice sharpened. “Or do you know?”

“Considering that it—or someone working through it—tried to absorb my magic, and that you two appeared only when I succeeded in drawing it back, what other assumption _can_ I make?”

“Wait, you think this is _our_ fault?” Dean was a little quicker on the uptake than he had first seemed.

“That’s what I’m—”

Sam cut him off. “Hold on. The stone—or whatever analogue of it we have, or had—did the same thing to us. At least, it felt that way. Although that makes no sense.” Sam looked around, hoping for something that would give him an explanation.

“Analogue? What do you mean?”

“We were looking at a box of Elfstones...that box, in fact.” Sam pointed to where the ancient container still lay balanced on the fallen stone. He would have walked over to it, but the sword pointed in his direction made him wary of doing anything its wielder might not like. “Something happened when Dean touched the Black Elfstone. Something that shouldn’t have been possible.”

“What happened?”

“The Black Elfstone absorbs magical power. That’s what it’s supposed to do, according to the lore we know. But there shouldn’t have been any for it to absorb, not from us.”

Dean’s expression darkened, and his thoughts turned grim. _Way to go letting this magic guy know we don’t have any juice_. Sam, however, did not hear the thought. That was something else useful to know.

“Look, it’s all fine and dandy figuring out how we got here.” Dean held up a deprecating hand. “But before we go any further, I think we need to know who, and what, you are.” The hand sharpened to a pointing finger.

Dean was afraid; Sam less so. But these brothers, wherever they had come from—the jumble of unfamiliar place names was unhelpful—believed in magic. And most of their experiences with it had not ended well.

“I am Allanon. I am a Druid.”

“Like, dancing around hugging trees Druid?” asked Dean, quirking his eyebrows.

“Do I look,” Allanon raised his sword slightly, “as if I spend a lot of time hugging trees?”

“So, a human sacrifices to make the crops grow kind of Druid?” If the man’s mind had not been so easy to read, Allanon would have thought Dean was being deliberately provocative. And, in truth, he was—a kind of bravado that was probably habitual. But he was also deadly serious. The idea that Druids had such a reputation anywhere was unsettling.

“No,” he said tautly, but letting the sword drop again. “Druids have always been the caretakers of the Four Lands. We use our magic to protect the world from evil.”

He wasn’t prepared to tell them, if they couldn’t figure it out for themselves by looking around them, that he was the only Druid left.

“Magic,” Sam said, again rushing to repair his brother’s tone. “You said before that you have magic. How did you get it?” The whisper of possibilities leaking from Sam’s mind, were equally unsettling. _Ritual witchcraft_... _bargains with demons_... _non-human origins_....

“I was born with it. In this world,” Allanon added, because it was now clearly apparent that these two had come from some otherwhere, “that is the only way to get magic.”

Sam gestured toward the box of Elfstones. “Could I take a closer look at that?”

It was unlikely that he could do any harm with it. Then again, the results of the last investigation had not been as expected. Still.... The Druid gave a sharp nod, then collapsed the sword altogether as a sign of his good faith.

Sam moved quickly to the box. The first thing he did, however, was to close the lid and peer closely at the sigil. “It _is_ the same box. Look, Dean.”

The older brother spared the Druid a wary look before sidling over to join Sam in examining the box. “Damned if it isn’t,” he murmured.

“Does this symbol mean anything to you?” Sam asked, looking up at Allanon.

“It’s the sign of artifacts from before the Great Wars.” Allanon noted the sense of dread that was triggered by his last words. “I take it that it means something more to you?”

“Have you ever heard of the Men of Letters?” Dean asked, more somberly than he yet spoken.

“No.” An astonishing suspicion was forming in his mind. He spoke slowly, “But the knowledge of many things was lost.”

Sam ran his finger over the sigil. “This is the symbol of the Men of Letters. It was a group that collected knowledge and artifacts and stored them in a protected bunker.” His eyes darted around the wrecked hall again, then met Allanon’s. “In our time, we were the last remaining Men of Letters.”

Allanon was torn between admiring the younger man’s quick perception and subtle manipulative abilities, and distrusting them.

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute!” said Dean. “Sam, are you saying that you think we _lose_ , and then Amara just ups and decides to turn the world into some kind of LARP heaven for no reason?” The unfamiliar word was connected to the same red-haired woman as before— _Charlie_ —this time wearing a crown and carrying a sword.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Sam said, with a tinge of exasperation. “But I do think that we’re dealing with time travel again.”

Dean buried his face in his hands. “I am _so_ sick of that. Okay,” he looked to Allanon, “when exactly was this Great Wars thing?”

“Nearly three thousand years ago.”

“No. No way. That’s not even possible.” Dean’s disbelief was verging on panic. “We cannot have traveled three thousand years into the future.”

“It could be more than that, for all we know,” Sam said, more intrigued than panicked, although not happy. “And that’s assuming we’re even in the same dimension. You said Faerie no longer exists?” he asked Allanon.

“It merged with our world after the Great Wars. That was what saved the Four Lands from complete annihilation. All of their magic was infused into the earth to preserve and protect it.”

“Wow, those do _not_ sound like the fairies I know,” said Dean. This time his thoughts went to miniature women with wings, bad-tempered and disturbingly well-endowed.

“There were many different kinds of Faerie races,” Allanon acknowledged. “Almost all of them perished except for the Elves.”

“And Elves created these,” Sam tapped on the box, “even before our time.”

“You said that your ‘Men of Letters’ had collected lore about the Elfstones?” Knowledge from three thousand years closer to their origin might be more useful than anything to be found in the royal archives.

“Well, yes,” said Sam. “But clearly it’s not fully accurate. If the Black Elfstone absorbs magical energy, what was it trying to pull out of us?”

“You have no magic at all?” Allanon asked. He couldn’t sense any now, but there had been something pulling from the other end.

“Maybe we have, or had,” Dean interrupted. He had been pacing a tight circle, but now he stopped. “Sam, you had those...powers.”

Allanon felt a mental shudder from both men, and images from Dean of his brother drinking... _demon blood?_ The Druid felt a frisson of horror himself, though he could sense no darkness overshadowing Sam’s mind.

“And I had the Mark.” Aside from a three-stroke sigil that Allanon didn’t recognize, Dean’s thoughts were a jumble of rage and blood.

“But all that’s _gone_ ,” Sam protested.

“Maybe not,” Allanon said. “If you ever had the ability to use magic, it might go dormant, but a trace of that power would always be there.”

“And that’s what this Black Elfstone took,” Dean said, sounding inordinately pleased.

“Even so, that doesn’t explain how it brought us here,” said Sam.

Their eyes all went to the dark lump of glass, winking balefully in the torchlight.

After a long moment, Allanon said, “If the Elfstone captured your remaining magic three thousand years ago and has been hidden in that box ever since, it’s possible that I am the only person since that time to have touched it. I was able to resist the stone’s attempt to steal my magic, but it became entangled in something inside...something I now have reason to believe was the power it stole from you.” He looked at the brothers queryingly, waiting for either of them to supply information that would contradict this theory.

Sam’s brow furrowed. “But if it stole the power from us, how could it still have been connected to us three thousand years later?”

“ _That_ I do not know. And if there are no answers in your lore, I know of only one other place to look.”

“Where’s that?” asked Dean, worried.

“Arborlon.” Allanon found himself smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters in this story have turned out to be a bit shorter than my usual chapters. I think that’s an artifact of doing most of the writing on my tablet. On the plus side, I may be able to post a chapter every week.


	3. Men on the Move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my readers and especially to my commenters! 
> 
> There’s a treat in this chapter for book fans, if you can spot it. When I was writing A Merciless Affection, I had fun throwing in references to various Alan Rickman movies, even though my Snape was definitely book!Snape. Here, my source of fun is throwing in references to the books, even though this story takes place completely in the TV!Shannara universe.
> 
> Also, note that I’m basing what-happened-thirty-years-ago and who-is-the-Warlock-Lord on information from the books, modified to fit in the TV universe. Depending on what we find out during season 2 (yes, there will be a season 2!!! *dances*), some of this may end up getting canon-shafted, but I’m doing the best I can for now.
> 
> This chapter picks up from where the last chapter left off, but from Sam’s POV.

“What do we do about _that_?” Sam asked, pointing to the floor where the Black Elfstone lay.

“Well,” said Dean, “if all your theories are wrong, we touch that and just go home.”

“Or further forward in time,” Sam pointed out, appalled.

“Come on, how much deeper shit could we be in?”

“Seriously, Dean?” Sam could imagine circumstances quite a bit worse.

“Seriously.” Dean crouched on the floor next to the stone. “Sam, if we don’t get back and do something about Amara, we’re all screwed, no matter how far we go into the future.” He held out his hand.

Sam shot an uncertain glance at Allanon, but the Druid did not seem concerned about Dean’s attempt. Probably the man would be just as glad to see the last of them.

With a sigh, Sam gripped his brother’s hand. Dean snatched up the Elfstone, his face tightening in concentration.

Nothing happened.

Dean winced harder and harder, frowning.

“If you are done with your experiment,” Allanon said, “we should start our journey. The lack of extra horses will slow us down.” He collected the box of Elfstones and came over to Dean, opening it and holding it out expectantly.

“Maybe it’ll work if _you_ touch it?” Dean stood up and offered the Black Elfstone on his open palm.

The Druid’s lips tightened into an acerbic grin. “Which I won’t do until I know more about it.”

Sam, tired of the foolishness, ducked down and retrieved the black cloth, then held it out to his brother. Dean deposited the stone reluctantly into the cloth.  Sam wrapped it up and placed it carefully among the others in the box. The Druid latched the box and tucked it away inside the long coat he wore.

“Those are ours, you know,” Dean grumbled, half under his breath, as Allanon made for a nearby archway that lead out into daylight.

“Three thousand years ago they were yours. Without them now, the Four Lands may stand no chance against the Warlock Lord,” Allanon said over his shoulder.

The brothers’ eyes met uneasily. “Always something,” Sam whispered, shrugging.

“We just never catch a break, do we?” Dean stalked after the Druid, leaving Sam to follow.

 

 

Sam hadn’t had any clear idea of what to expect outside the cavernous ruins, but he was awed by the sight that greeted them. They were in a vast dry canyon with sheer walls, reminiscent of the Grand Canyon, though not as tall. The sun was a third of the way down the sky. The Druid began making immediately for the one spot where a jumbled configuration of rocks suggested a path up to the cliff top.

An hour later, in a small knot of vegetation some distance into the surrounding desert, they found the Druid’s horse. The large, black beast snorted when it saw them approaching, but quieted when Allanon stroked its nose. “It’s all right, boy,” he murmured. “But I’m going to walk the rest of the day to let these fellows keep up.”

He saddled the horse all the same.

“Anything we need to worry about out here?” Sam asked, as the Druid led them to the southwest. Aside from his pocketknife, Sam was unarmed. He thought Dean might keep his boot knife strapped on, even inside the bunker, but doubted that his brother was wearing a gun. _We were safe, damn it_. And now they were not. Unless the Druid opted to wield his magical sword in their defense, instead of against them. That was not something Sam was prepared to count on.

Allanon stopped and looked around. “Most animal predators would leave us alone. Trolls and Gnomes rarely venture into this area.”

“Trolls and Gnomes?” Dean asked incredulously, gesturing hopefully at around waist height.

The corner of Allanon’s mouth twisted as his own gesture suggested creatures nearly as tall as themselves.

“Do they have magic?” Sam asked.

The Druid turned and began moving forward again. “No.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I will be aware if anything comes too near.”

_With magic_ , Sam thought sourly. But there was nothing for it but to go on.

 

 

The desert gradually gave way to trees and brush, scrubby at first, but becoming more forest-like as they went on. It was twilight in the clearings and dark under the trees before Allanon called a halt for the night where a spring emerged from mossy stones and became a small stream—a merciful relief to their desert-driven thirst. “We will reach Arborlon tomorrow afternoon if we can find horses for you in the morning. There’s a village to the south.”

“We...don’t really ride that much, to be honest,” Sam said. His backside ached at the memory of the one time he’d had to travel on horseback.

“Aren’t there, you know, cars? Buses? Trains?” Dean added, as Allanon raised his eyebrows.

“Come on, Dean,” Sam said. “We haven’t even seen a road yet.”

Allanon did not bother to provide any other answer; instead, he began building a fire. Dean elected to make himself useful by gathering firewood. But Sam sank cross-legged to the ground, trying to make sense of all that had happened.

Something felt missing inside. As though he had suddenly found a tooth gone, without pain or blood, and he couldn’t help worrying at the gap. If the stone had sucked out the last remnants of his demon powers, he ought to be grateful. But the unexpected was almost never a good thing, and now he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It might already have dropped, for that matter. The stone had carried them into an almost inconceivably distant future, and as Dean had proven, it showed no signs of taking them back. At this point, Sam would prefer to discover that they were actually in a different dimension; at least there might be a doorway home in that case.

Sam pondered every experience he and Dean had had with time travel. The amount of energy necessary to propel them three thousand years through time had to be enormous. Not even an archangel had that much juice. And no information he had yet uncovered in the Men of Letters records indicated that their time portal spell had ever been used over a period longer than a hundred years. Even if he and Dean could make a time portal successfully without the list of ingredients and the illustration of the necessary sigil at hand, the chance of it working across such a vast number of years was questionable at best.

Not that Sam intended to accept the possibility of not getting back. Aside from the fact that they were needed in their own time, this time seemed to have problems of its own. And despite this Druid’s claims of being a caretaker, there was no knowing if he was telling the truth. He had been inside a ruin, messing with a box of powerful magical artifacts, and magic plus more magic never added up to anything good.

A shadow fell between him and the now cracking fire. It was Allanon, offering a piece of some kind of flat bread.

“I am not your enemy, Sam Winchester,” the Druid said quietly. “I may be a better friend than you realize.”

“Then how did you know our names?” Sam asked, allowing suppressed anger to begin bubbling up inside him.

To his surprise, Allanon grinned ever so slightly. “That’s never a good sign for you, is it?” Then, as Sam floundered for an answer, he went on, “Your brother thinks very loudly.”

“You can read our thoughts?” It explained some things, but Sam didn’t like it.

“Yours are more difficult, although they were a little clearer just now.” Allanon held out the bread again.

Sam took it reluctantly. “If that’s supposed to make me more comfortable, it doesn’t.”

“You’ve been through some difficult experiences.”

“Did you pull that out of my head?”

“It doesn’t take reading your thoughts to see that.” Allanon’s eyes flicked away into the darkness.

“Hey,” said Dean, from the fireside, “isn’t it about time you told us more about this mess we’ve landed in?”

Allanon offered a hand to help Sam up. Gloved, Sam had noted already, along with the metal and leather around the Druid’s forearms, and the hint of leather body armor under the coat. Despite the fact that the Druid looked a few years older than Dean, the strength in the pull was enough to confirm what Sam had already decided: this was not a man he would be happy to go up against in a fight, magic or no magic.

“What do you wish to know?” Allanon said, settling at the fireside across from Dean. Sam sat next to his brother, sending him a look that telegraphed that he had things to tell him as soon as the opportunity arose.

“Where are we? And I don’t mean this ‘Four Lands’ place. I mean in comparison to places in our own time,” Dean said.

“The earth endured so much upheaval, between the Great Wars and the merging with Faerie, only scattered remnants remain of the world that was. Unless you see something you recognize, there is no way to be certain. There are maps in the royal archives, but I can’t promise they’ll be of any use to you.”

“What about oceans, lakes, rivers?” Sam asked.

“The ocean lies west of here.” Allanon pointed. “Just beyond Arborlon.”

“West coast,” said Sam, looking to Dean. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” said Dean. “What is this ‘Arborlon’?”

“The capital of the Elven kingdom,” said Allanon. “Humans live mainly to the south and east. Dwarves are further to the east. Gnomes come from the north, beyond the Breakline. Trolls hunt wherever they can find prey.”

“I thought you said all the Faerie races except the Elves were gone?” Sam pointed out.

“They are. My mentor told me the Druid histories recorded that the different races which mutated out of ancient humans after the Great Wars took on the names of ancient Faerie races, but did not actually descend from them.”

Sam considered what he had deduced earlier in the day. Allanon had called the place the Druids’ Keep, but it had been a shambles, complete with mouldering skeletons. Sam had ventured a guess then that Allanon might be the last surviving member of his order. The slightest hint of wistfulness as he spoke of a mentor only confirmed the idea.

“What happened back there?” Sam asked. If the man really could read his mind, he would know exactly what Sam was referring to.

There was a long silence before the Druid answered. Dean would have spoken, but Sam waved him quiet.

“A massacre,” Allanon said, finally. “When the Warlock Lord arose before the last War of the Races, he knew the Druids might stand in his way. He sent his servants, the Skull Bearers, to destroy them.”

“You survived?” It was more of a statement than a question. Sam couldn’t read minds, but he had seen haunted expressions in enough eyes to guess that Allanon had been through some difficult experiences himself.

“I wasn’t there. My mentor had found me shortly before and had begun teaching me to be a Druid. We survived only because we were not at the Keep when it fell.”

“You said the _last_ war?” Dean asked. “I take it that means there’s another one going on?”

“It’s about to begin. The Warlock Lord is gathering an army of Trolls and Gnomes, controlled and led by Skull Bearers. When he decides he has enough might to crush the Elven army, he will send them out, first against Arborlon, then to bring all the remaining people of the Four Lands under his sway, mentally as well as physically.”

_Very deep shit,_ Sam thought. _And until we find a way back, we’re in this up to our necks._

“So this Warlock Lord and his Skull Bearers are pretty bad-ass?” Dean said.

Allanon’s brow furrowed for an instant. “They will be nearly impossible to defeat. These Elfstones,” he touched the bulk where the box remained hidden against his chest, “might make the difference.”

“What kind of powers are we up against?” Sam asked. “What _are_ these guys?”

Allanon hesitated before answering, as if he were unsure they would believe him. “Spirit creatures.”

“You mean ghosts?” said Dean.

“The Shades of ordinary men are easily banished. These are something more. Bremen, my mentor, believed they were members of a group of humans who had tried to use magic to bring all humans together to take over the Four Lands, hundreds of years ago. The Druids of that time defeated them, but Bremen discovered that their leader had not remained dead.”

“A ghost is a ghost,” Dean said. “Salt and burn the bones.”

“If you can find them,” Allanon said. “Bremen was seeking them when he found me. But too much time had passed, and he had too little time to spare before the Warlock Lord gathered an army, just as he is doing now.”

“Then how did you beat them back?” asked Sam.

Silence again. Finally, “My mentor devised a weapon that would destroy the Warlock Lord, along with the Skull Bearers he had called back to help him. Bremen gave it to the Elven king, Jerle Shannara, because his bloodline was one of the few that still carried the ancient Elven magic that was necessary to wield it.”

“But it didn’t work, not if they’re back,” Sam pointed out.

Allanon grimaced. “I would advise you not to say that to anyone in Arborlon. The Elves regard Jerle Shannara as their greatest king. And he was. He was a great warrior, and he led wisely after the war.”

“So,” Dean asked, “what went wrong?”

The Druid stared into the fire, then out into the dark. “He lacked the strength necessary to use the Sword’s power fully. He was able to banish the Warlock Lord, with Bremen’s help, but he did not destroy him. And although I continued looking for the bones after my mentor’s death, I never found them.”

“Did something happen to the Sword?” Sam asked.

“The Sword of Shannara is safe in Arborlon. The problem is there is no heir of Shannara to wield it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to modify my original description of the area around the Druids’ Keep after rewatching the scene where Allanon and Wil go there, because my brain had supplied vegetation where none exists. I grew up in the desert, and I expect vegetation around the edges of rock formations, but there isn’t any in the immediate area of the Keep. Go figure.
> 
> Also, a word about travel times. Considering that maximum travel distance per day in a world without cars (or even post horses) is about 30 miles, it ought take a lot longer than it appears to in order get from place to place. But neither of the series in question does a very good job of conveying travel time in terms of anything more than mere hours. Even Supernatural has given up on the idea that anyplace in the U.S. is further than a day’s drive from anyplace else in the U.S. So I’m only extending travel times just a tiny bit towards realism—a token protest.
> 
> Next chapter, back to Allanon’s POV.


	4. Men and Elves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same conversation, just continuing from Allanon’s POV. Because these characters seem to decide randomly who wants to tell the story at any given point.

“What, the king died without any children?” Dean asked, surprised. “No brothers, nephews, cousins?”

That _would_ be surprising, if everything Allanon had just recounted had happened when Dean believed it had. But it hadn’t, and saying so would raise difficult questions.

Unfortunately, there was no other way to explain.

“Jerle Shannara died nearly three hundred years ago. His known heirs have been systematically hunted down and killed by agents of the Warlock Lord, in spite of my efforts to find and protect them.”

The brothers’ response was not at all what he expected. Rather than disbelief at his impossible age, Dean’s first thought was a flicker of worry that they might have to kill him without easy access to the items necessary for killing... _witches?_

“My magic does not work as you suppose,” Allanon said, rising quickly to his feet, his hand coming to rest on his sword hilt.

Dean blinked, standing purely out of reflex. “What the—?”

Sam, on his feet as well, grabbed his brother’s arm. “He can read our thoughts.”

“Well, isn’t _that_ just a barrel of laughs?” Dean said, his sarcasm evident even on his face.

Allanon frowned. If not for the possibility that they might be able to provide additional information about the Elfstones, he would be very close to being done with these two. “If you want my help in returning to where you came from, we need to trust each other more than we do now.”

Trust didn’t come easily to them, he could see as the brothers looked at one another, trading thoughts without magic by a combination of expressions and a lifetime of familiarity. They didn’t even always trust each other, he realized, which seemed at odds with the impression that they would do almost anything to protect each other.

“He’s got a point,” Sam said. “Unless we really want to try to make our own way in world we don’t even recognize.”

And there was the fear again: fear that they might never get home. This time neither of them managed to bury it under a layer of desperate determination as quickly as they had before.

“Oh hell,” Dean said. “Okay. For the moment we’ll assume we’re on the same side. But,” he pointed the same warning finger he had earlier, “that could change if we see anything that suggests otherwise.”

“Fair enough,” Allanon said. “If you don’t make hasty assumptions about what you see.”

Dean’s frown deepened. But Sam tugged on his brother’s arm before sitting down again, and shortly they were all reseated on the ground.

“Is there any chance,” Sam asked, determined to redirect the conversation, “that there might be heirs that this Warlock Lord doesn’t know about?”

“A slim chance, but I don’t dare to rely on it.”

“And these Elfstones,” Dean said, “the normal ones, I mean. They’ll work for any Elf? Even ones without magic in their blood?”

That was the question Allanon had been trying to avoid asking himself. “I can’t be sure until we get to Arborlon and find a way to test them.”

“There aren’t any other bloodlines that carry magic?” Sam asked.

“Possibly. I hope we can find that information in the archives, along with records regarding the Elfstones.”

“Couldn’t someone else with Elven magic wield this sword your mentor made?”

“No. My mentor designed the magic of the sword to bond with the magic in the wielder’s blood, in order to draw power more easily from the wielder’s own magic.” Allanon had wondered often of late if that had been necessary to make the magic work, and if there might be some way of modifying the spell. But Bremen had been a master of such things. Allanon had, of necessity, developed his skills in other directions, and there was no time to remedy that now. “Finding other Elves with a gift for magic may help with the Elfstones, but only a Shannara can use the sword.”

 

 

On that far from cheerful note, the brothers had allowed the conversation to lapse. Nor did they make any earnest complaints about starting out before dawn, short rations, or a forced march. Dean’s chief annoyance seemed to be that the small glass-and-metal device that somehow fed music into his ears through strings (which he had borrowed from Sam) had stopped working because it was out of power. Fear was driving their steps, and all they wanted now was to see the end of the journey as soon as possible.

Still, they paused, astonished, to look at one of the relics of the Old World that lay near the path. Some kind of conveyance, presumably, since it had the remnants of wheels.

“That’s sort of...not possible,” Sam said.

“Yeah, exactly. Tell me,” said Dean, addressing the words to Allanon, “if it’s been three thousand years since our world blew up, how has this car not rusted away to nothing?” He was hoping that it hadn’t been that long, that there was some other explanation for where they found themselves.

“Magic,” Allanon said simply. “When the magic of Faerie was infused into the human world, it affected everything it touched in different ways. It sped up the transformation of the races that had begun to mutate from ancient humans. It healed much of the damage to the air and water and soil. Many of the created objects it enveloped—things that were made with intelligence and purpose—were preserved in a kind of stasis.”

“You mean this car has been like this for three thousand years?” Dean asked, his thoughts focusing on a black car of a different shape, wondering if it might possibly still exist; he was exceedingly fond of it.

“Yes.”

“But how is that even possible?” Sam wanted to know. “What if you tore it apart? Would that break the spell? Or can it be torn apart at all?”

“I doubt it. Not without magic,” Allanon said, recalling for the first time in centuries the things Bremen had taught him about the aftermath of the Great Wars. “And the pieces would remain as they are.”

“If this magic stasis didn’t just slow things down, how did it get in this condition?” Dean pointed at the obvious signs of damage.

“Did you think that the Faerie people rushed immediately to save the human world?” Allanon felt a surge of disgust, although he himself was not sure if it was at the ancient humans who had nearly destroyed the world, or at the Faerie who had waited overlong to save it, or at the Winchesters’ naiveté, or maybe some combination of all three. “The decision to merge Faerie with the human world didn’t come until it became clear that the damage was leaking into Faerie, warping its magic a bit at a time. It was not an unselfish choice, no matter how sacrificial it must have seemed to those who made it.”

“Now that,” said Dean, “sounds more like the fairies I know.”

 

 

Since the brothers had been serious enough in their disinclination to ride to make obtaining horses for them more trouble than it was worth, Allanon had bypassed the more southerly route and opted for a shorter one, although it didn’t bring them onto the main road until the sun was sinking above the hilltop palace complex of the Elven capital. If he had trusted the brothers to their own resources, he would have left them to find dinner in the market, but he didn’t quite, so they had to trail along while he delivered Matriq back to the royal stables. When Dean finally asked about food (he had been thinking about it since they arrived in Arborlon), a quick pass through the palace kitchens was adequate to take the edge off both hunger and the dirt of travel.

It had been all too tempting to rush straight to the archives, even though he knew she would probably be there late into the night, until she was nodding off over her books. He could imagine her now, head bent, her dinner mostly forgotten on the plate. But he had intentionally restrained the impulse, trying to pretend to himself that morning would be soon enough to tell her what he’d found, if she wasn’t there this evening.

_This isn’t wise_ , he thought, his steps a little quicker than precisely necessary, as he led his new companions through the marble halls.

“Allanon?”

It was a woman’s voice, but not the one he wanted to hear. He stopped and turned as Commander Pindanon approached from the intersecting hallway. In dress armor, as usual, with an elaborate hairstyle. Her smile was as sharp as her face, although he knew for a fact that she intended it to be appealing.

“Commander,” he acknowledged.

He could sense her disappointment that his greeting wasn’t warmer. But her smile faded only as she took in his companions.

“Who are these humans?”

“I require their assistance in evaluating a magical weapon,” Allanon said, knowing as he said it that she immediately hoped they would turn out to be handy experimental targets. She didn’t say so, of course. She probably wouldn’t have thought it if she’d known he could read her thoughts, since she seemed quite prepared to overlook the fact that the Druid was also a human. But she didn’t know, and he had no intention of telling her. “Please let the king know I’ve returned.”

“Certainly.” She was endeavoring to smile again.

Whatever she thought as Allanon proceeded down the hall without further comment he pointedly blocked out.

“Wow, what a bitch,” Dean murmured. “A hot bitch, but...whew.”

“She is one of King Eventine’s chief generals, so you should be careful of how you speak of her to anyone else. In fact,” Allanon added, “be careful how you speak to anyone. The royal archivist is the king’s sister.”

“Was it just her,” Sam said, “or are these Elves not particularly fond of humans?”

Sam had noticed the unfriendly glances.

“Humans caused the Great Wars, and that is something the Elves will likely never forget,” Allanon said. “You should also remember that the first time the Warlock Lord attacked, when he was still alive, humans were his allies. Even now, Eventine suspects that the Warlock Lord has human agents.”

“So, they may think we’re spies?” Dean said, ever willing to be surprised at how much worse things could get.

“Not if you stick with me,” Allanon answered.

They had reached the door to the archives. Unexpectedly, it opened.

“Allanon?” He had never seen such a whole-hearted smile lighting up Pyria’s eyes, nor felt such rush of joy from her as she was failing completely—no, not even trying—to suppress. “Tatiana said she saw you coming in gate.”

He felt unaccountably annoyed when she brought herself back under careful control as she noticed the unfamiliar men with him. And more annoyed yet when he realized that he himself had been smiling more broadly than he had ever allowed her to see.

“Pyria, these are the Winchester brothers, Dean and Sam. Princess Pyria Elessedil,” Allanon introduced her.

“Do you have to do that?” she said, extending her hand to Dean and then Sam. “Welcome to Arborlon.”

“Thank you, your...” Dean stumbled for a word, “highness.”

“Thank you,” Sam said simply, shooting a quick glare at his brother.

“I’m guessing there’s an interesting story that goes with these two,” she said. Then another surge of joy. “Did you find what you were looking for, Allanon?”

“Perhaps.” He tapped on the bulk of the box inside his surcoat, letting her hear the muffled clink of metal.

She glanced both ways down the hallway. “Come inside.” She closed the door behind them before she spilled the secret she had been suppressing. “I found what I was looking for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to put a lampshade on one of the most annoying aspects of The Shannara Chronicles: the presence of many current-day items that should have rotted or rusted away after the *three thousand years* that the writers stipulated. I hope you like my explanation.
> 
> Thanks to the presence of Sam and Dean, I’m also able to focus some attention on the anti-human prejudice of the Elves. It’s quietly pervasive in the series, but it’s rarely called out (Wil’s question, “Because she didn’t love an Elf?” and Eretria’s line, “We all look the same to you anyway.”). I was noticing when I was rewatching “Changeling” (1.04) that Arion describes Allanon as “the same enemy we have spent our entire lives fighting.” He doesn’t mean Druids; he means *non-Elves*, and specifically *humans*. Considering that we know that Pykon wasn’t decommissioned until after the war that’s about to take place, and that one of the specific purviews of the fortress was to torture humans for information, it makes sense that Eventine—who isn’t as much of a bigot as Arion—must have some reason to think that humans (the *wrong* humans, that is) are a genuine threat to his people.


	5. Men in the Archives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Sam’s POV. Also, an appearance by Prince Aine, age 10. See end notes on that.

“An heir of Shannara?” Sam said.

“You told them?” the archivist asked, her dark hazel eyes flicking from him to Dean before she fixed them again on the Druid.

“They aren’t a threat,” Allanon said. _Answering that question, or one she’d been thinking?_ Sam wondered.

She looked at them again, taking in details that she was probably filing away behind an expression that had changed from almost girlishly joyful to one that would tolerate no nonsense. She was older than Sam had thought at first—a tad closer maybe to forty than to thirty.

“I found three possibilities,” she said, moving to retrieve a stack of papers from a desk that determinedly divided the well lit entryway from the racks of scrolls and books that faded into a room full of shadows beyond. “There was a great-great-granddaughter who married a Stornhaven of Fall Spike. We’ll have to go there to see if any of that line are left.”

“Is there any particular reason there wouldn’t be?” Dean asked. It was a good question. After 300 years, there should be any number of forgotten descendants, if one could track them all down.

“The Warlock Lord’s spies have been ahead of us from the start,” Allanon said, examining the page Pyria had handed him. “Have there been any reports of Skull Bearers in that area?”

“No,” said Pyria, “which makes me hopeful.”

“Um, how far ahead?” Sam asked, dire suspicions growing.

Allanon looked him in the eye. It didn’t take mind-reading to see that the Druid had already lost that race more than once. Sam knew all too well what that felt like, and he reevaluated everything he had observed about the other man so far. What he had assumed was the arrogant testiness of a magic-user now looked more like the anger of a hunter who was losing.

“What else?” Allanon asked Pyria.

She handed him another page, full of carefully drawn branches of a family tree. Sam noticed that every name but one had a thick black X beneath it. “Do you remember that there was a daughter of Barris Triannal’s line who married a human?”

“No one knew where she had gone,” Allanon said doubtfully.

“I went through Realla Elessedil’s correspondence with Tivalia Triannal. They were best friends,” Pyria said to Sam and Dean, before resuming her explanation to Allanon. “Tivalia’s half-human granddaughter, Parrisa, came back here to Arborlon and married an Elf, Ediard Arhadrian. Unfortunately, Ediard died in an accident, and Parrisa wasn’t long following him to the grave.”

“But they had a child?” Allanon surmised.

“This is Tivalia’s final letter.” Pyria held up another, smaller page, filled with crabbed handwriting. “It arrived after Realla herself had passed away, twenty years ago. No one had bothered to break the seal until I did.” She pointed to the center of the page. “She mentions that her granddaughter has just died of childbirth fever. She’s upset that Parrisa’s human cousin, who had come with her to Arborlon, took the baby back with her to the village they grew up in.”

Allanon rested his finger on the page just below Pyria’s. “Shady Vale. This may be the best possibility we have, assuming the child survived. But you said there was a third?”

Pyria frowned. “Orden Starr fathered a child out of wedlock, or at least that’s the rumor I heard when I went digging for gossip among his friends’ sisters.”

“Such a child wouldn’t be very old,” Allanon said, frowning himself.

“Nine or ten.”

Allanon turned to place the papers he was holding back on the desk.

“You can’t pit a child of that age against the Warlock Lord,” Pyria said.

“Of course not,” Sam said, although he suspected that might be a lie.

“We should still find this kid and try to protect him or her,” said Dean. Sam met his brother’s eye, wondering if he, too, recognized the possible lie; instead he found his brother wearing his over-my-dead-body expression.

“Yes, we must,” Allanon said, turning back to face Pyria. “Do you know where the child is?”

Pyria sighed. “Somewhere in Dragonfyre Square.”

Into the dull silence that followed, Dean said, “I’m going to venture a guess that that’s not a nice part of town.”

“It’s where the world’s oldest trade is plied,” Allanon said quietly. He shot a sharp look at Dean, and Sam turned his head just in time to see his brother struggling to look solemn. Allanon went on, “We’ll go there tomorrow. I’ll ride to Fall Spike as soon as possible afterward.”

“I’m coming with you,” Pyria said. “To Fall Spike. There are things people might say to me that they wouldn’t say to you.”

_Does she not know about the mind-reading?_ Sam thought. _Or is she just looking for an excuse to spend more time with him, regardless?_  A dozen little things, starting with the look on her face when she’d seen that he was back, hinted at her secret affection for the Druid. But in spite of the familiar ease in their conversation together, they didn’t show the physical easiness of lovers. Sam would have guessed at unrequited love if not for little things about the way Allanon looked at her.

“It’s too dangerous,” Allanon said. “Besides, I need you here to study these.” He reached into the front of his coat and brought out the box. He laid it on the desk and unlatched it. “Be careful not to touch them until we know more.”

Pyria bent over the box, her eyes widening. “These can’t be what I think they are?”

“Elfstones,” Allanon confirmed.

“But they were lost hundreds of years before we sacrificed Faerie to save the humans. Did you find them all at the Druids’ Keep?”

“Exactly as you see them. I have reason to believe,” Allanon glanced at Sam and Dean, “that humans collected them before the Great Wars. Have you ever come across a reference to ‘Men of Letters’?”

Pyria’s eyes grew distant; finally she shook her head. “I haven’t studied that era very carefully. And what I know of Elfstones is more legend than research.”

“Do you have the resources to find out more?” Allanon asked.

“Yes, of course. But what makes you think it would be dangerous to handle them?” She was staring into the box, and Sam could see that her fingers were fairly itching to touch them.

“There was an accident,” Allanon said. “The Black Elfstone...there’s only one, not three.” He glanced at Sam for confirmation.

“There’s only meant to be one,” Sam said. “It draws in magical power.”

“I felt compelled to touch it,” Allanon took up the narrative. “The Winchesters apparently experienced the same effect in their own time. As a result—as far as we can determine—they appeared at the Keep.”

“Own time?” Pyria stared at Sam and Dean again.

“Yeah,” Dean rubbed his hand self-consciously across his face, “we’re actually from before this big apocalypse you had.”

“We don’t know how or why,” Sam added. “But unless you can find out more, we may never get home.”

“Well, that’s an interesting story indeed,” Pyria said. She looked to Allanon uncertainly.

“A strange one. Which is why I need you to find out all you can about how Elfstones function.”

Pyria turned to the seemingly endless shelves and pressed the back of her wrist to her forehead.

“You needn’t begin this moment.” Traces of that unexpected smile appeared again at the corners of the Druid’s mouth. “With what you’ve learned and I have uncovered, the situation is far less dire than it seemed when I left for Druids’ Keep. Get some rest.”

“Only if you promise to get some rest yourself,” she said, and there was a touch of yearning, a desire to protect him, in her voice. “How many miles have you traveled in the last three weeks?”

“A Druid seldom has the luxury of remaining in one place for long.” It was an offhand sort of statement, but there was something in Allanon’s tone that sounded like a mild warning. Something was going on between them, Sam decided, or keeping them apart.

“Then rest while you can.” A brief, sad smile suggested she’d picked up on the undertone. “Should I arrange for quarters for your guests?”

“The suite I was assigned has more than enough room to accommodate them.”

_And you still don’t trust us to be out from under your eyes_ , Sam thought, not caring if the Druid heard. Not that he and Dean would feel any differently had their places been reversed.

“I want to speak with your brother before he retires,” Allanon went on. “He may have had reports about Fall Spike that he wouldn’t share with you.”

Pyria hugged herself, shuddering. “It does no good to say it isn’t fair, but when people have done nothing but be born in the wrong—”

She cut off abruptly at the patter of feet outside the door, which was wrenched open, not by a guard or some monster, as Sam half-expected, but by an Elven boy of about nine or ten, dark-haired and grey-eyed.

“Aine, why aren’t you in bed?” she scolded, although she was clearly not particularly angry.

“You know I’m too old to go to bed this early, Aunt Pyria!” the boy protested. “Commander Pindanon told Father the Druid was back.” He sent an almost worshipful glance at Allanon.

“And you knew you’d find him here?” Pyria laughed.

“He’s _always_ here,” Aine said matter-of-factly. “Father says it’s good for a man to be a scholar as well as a warrior.”

“I’m hardly a scholar,” Allanon said, with a faint smile. “But I do need the services of a scholar, and your aunt is a very good one.”

This was evidently enough to encourage the boy to speak directly to the object of his admiration. “Father said you went looking for magic to help in the war.” When Allanon nodded slightly, Aine went on, “Did you find some?”

“Perhaps. But only your scholarly aunt can tell us how useful it will be.”

“Are the humans going to ally with us?” This time Aine glanced at Sam and Dean. Sam had thought the boy was refusing to acknowledge them, but now his interest seemed frank.

“You may know more of that than I do, Prince Aine,” Allanon said. Considering how testy he had been with them so far, Sam was surprised at the Druid’s respectful patience with the boy. “The messengers your father sent to Tyrsis and Culhaven had not yet returned when I left.”

“Oh,” the boy said, let down. “No, they haven’t come back yet.” He shot another curious look at Sam and Dean.

“These men have come to help me with the magic,” Allanon said, a far more generous explanation than Sam expected. “Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester.”

“I didn’t think humans knew anything about magic,” Aine said, studying them unabashedly. He turned to Allanon as if to ask another question and quickly went red from the upturned collar of his shirt to the tips of his pointed ears. “I meant—”

“I know what you meant, young prince,” Allanon said. “I also know that you didn’t come here for your own amusement. The king sent you to find me.”

“Scamp,” Pyria said, but she was grinning. “Do your duty and stop insulting our guests.”

Aine’s color deepened further, but he stood straighter and addressed the Druid. “My father, the king, requests that you attend him as soon as possible.”

“That’s my signal to go,” Allanon said to Pyria. “I’ll see you in the morning. Sam and Dean, I think you had better come with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did I make Aine 10 years old? (Shannara Chronicles spoilers in this note, if for some reason you’re reading this even though you haven’t seen the series.) 
> 
> I’ve chosen to go with the premise that the “falling out” between Eventine and Pyria over her relationship with Allanon must have occurred within a fairly short time after Allanon’s disappearance. After, because Allanon didn’t know about it. But not long after, because Eventine describes it as “many years ago.” Also, once Allanon was out of the picture, the relationship would probably have become a moot point—not something to have a serious quarrel about.
> 
> And yes, it must have been a serious quarrel, despite the fact that Eventine calls it a “falling out.” When Pyria’s name comes up in 1.02, Eventine says, “No one has heard from my sister for years.” In fact, Amberle feels that she has to keep her correspondence with Pyria a secret. That suggests that everyone in the family is very well aware that Eventine doesn’t *want* to hear from *or* about his sister. Chances are that has probably been the case ever since the “falling out.” 
> 
> Since Amberle wasn’t even born until 12 years after the events in this story (30 minus 18), the only way that Amberle would have ever had contact with her aunt (great-aunt, really) is through some other member of the family—most probably her father, Aine. Pyria says that Amberle is “the spitting image of your mother,” so clearly Pyria had met Aine’s wife, which means that Aine had kept in contact with his aunt over the years. I’m guessing that the correspondence between Pyria and Amberle would have grown originally out of Pyria’s attempt to comfort Amberle after Aine’s death.
> 
> As a result of all this, I had to make Aine old enough in this story that remaining in contact with his aunt in spite of his father’s disapproval would seem feasible. Also, Aine had to be old enough to have an 18-year-old daughter 30 years later (10 plus 30 minus 18 equals 22—not an unreasonable age to become a father). But at the same time, Aine had to be young enough not to be directly involved in the war, and also young enough that his next-oldest brother, Arion, wouldn’t have been old enough at the time to remember the war or even Allanon. A bit more on the Elessedil sons next chapter.


	6. Men Frazzled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there was another week’s hiatus. My proofreader is my life-long best friend, and her father-in-law was having a really bad week with his lung cancer. :~(
> 
> This is a fairly short chapter. The first scene is from Allanon’s POV; then we’re back to Sam.

King Eventine Elessedil looked up from a map he was studying. “So, the chief rascal-in-training found you.”

“In the archives, of course,” Aine said proudly. Allanon kept his expression carefully neutral, despite the anxiety that swirled inside him at the implications of the words. Even the boy suspected an attachment between his aunt and the Druid. For a wonder, Eventine did not.

“Then you know what Pyria discovered? Good.” He set the map aside and clasped hands with the Druid, then raised his eyebrows questioningly as he glanced at the human men who had come in with Allanon. “Did you encounter messengers from Tyrsis on the way?”

“They are not from Tyrsis,” Allanon said. “Their story is much more complicated. I must ask that you receive them as my guests for now. I found—” He broke off, aware of Aine at his father’s elbow, hanging on every word.

Eventine, too, looked at Aine.  “You need to go bid your mother goodnight, son, before it gets any later.”

“But I should _know_ things!” Aine protested, with the all frustrated impotence of a boy feeling that it must be time, with his world in danger, for him be trusted with the duties of manhood. He looked up at Allanon, pleading silently for support.

“So you should,” Allanon said. “But your father will decide what and when.”

_It isn’t fair_ , stood out clearly in the prince’s thoughts. It said something about his growing maturity that he didn’t say the words out loud. Instead he sighed. “Goodnight, Father.” He was still young enough not to resist his father’s warm embrace. “Goodnight, Druid. Goodnight, guests.” He made a short, proper bow.

“Goodnight, prince,” said Allanon, and the Winchester brothers echoed the sentiment. Dean included a brief wave.

The boy left with despairing dignity, followed by his father’s thoughts of his queen, Brianna, and the child she carried, all too close to birthing with all the dangers his kingdom now faced, and his younger son, Arion, still too young—at barely four years of age—to lift even a boy’s sword if matters came to that.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have let him overhear our last conversation,” Eventine said ruefully.

“It’s better that he be aware now of the dangers we face than to wake up one morning and discover that his world has been turned upside down.” Although even that would do little good, despite the boy’s level-headedness, if Eventine fell. He was still too young to rule without a regent, and none of the candidates Eventine had in mind were, in Allanon’s still-private opinion, suited to the task.

“True,” Eventine said, but he himself was avoiding that thought as much as possible. “Now, tell me what you found.”

 

***

 

The conversation was long and thorough, as the king drew every detail out of the Druid, and shared every detail of what had happened in his absence. Sam felt as if he had learned more in an hour from Eventine than he had during an entire day with Allanon.

Not that any of was likely to help them get home. But it was good to know that the Elven army was mustering, and that there was some hope of getting help from the king of the nearest human kingdom, despite the fact that Tyrsis was itself was at risk of being swallowed by a confederation of humans that had been gradually absorbing human cities for the last hundred years. The Dwarves of Culhaven were another matter; they had old alliances with Tyrsis, but the chances of them sending soldiers as far as Arborlon were low. The Warlock Lord would most likely send his forces against the Elves, but the Dwarves couldn’t forget that in the time of Jerle Shannara, three hundred years ago, the first attack by the ensorcelled armies of the Northland had been directed against Culhaven.

Eventine had already sent soldiers to Fall Spike, acting on the information his sister had discovered, since there might be any number of precious Shannara heirs in the village. He expected a report from them tomorrow.

Upon learning of Sam and Dean’s strange origins, Eventine had grilled them about what they knew regarding the Elfstones. It had been uncomfortable to have to confess that it was their own organization that had stolen them from the Elves—although long before their own time. But Allanon, much to Sam’s surprise, had pointed out that the Elfstones had probably survived only because they had been collected and hidden. “It may be,” he had said, “that fate has brought them to light now for a purpose.”

But after the conference was over, and the Druid had led them to his quarters—which were, as promised, more than adequately spacious—he had lapsed again into a silence that remained unbroken until Dean finally spoke up.

“About tomorrow, what exactly are you expecting from us?”

“In what way do you think you can prove useful?” Allanon challenged. “Are there any weapons in this world that you can wield? And since you can’t ride—”

“Hey, we didn’t say ‘can’t,” Dean interrupted. “And we can fight with swords.”

"Swords with _edges_?” It was clear that Allanon doubted the brothers’ usefulness in a fight, and Sam had to admit that he’d seen nothing yet to make him believe otherwise. He had obviously seen the battle of Moondoor in Dean’s mind, and while that had been a lot of fun, a LARP battle was hardly likely to convince anyone in this time of their skills.

“We’re good with knives. _With edges_ ,” Sam said. “And we could pick up the hang of real swords pretty quickly.”

“We spend most of our time hunting and killing monsters,” Dean said. “Isn’t there anyone in this time who does that?”

Allanon raised his eyebrows. “I do.”

“Just you?” Dean was incredulous. “All of them? Vamps, werewolves, rogue gods?”

“Perhaps there are fewer monsters now than in your time. A great many of them were trapped inside the Forbidding, locked out of this world. But yes, those that remain to threaten the people of the Four Lands are my duty to find and destroy.”

“Then you’re a hunter, like us,” Sam said.

“I am a Druid,” Allanon said, testily. “And unless you can adapt to this time, there is very little for you to do beyond sitting here until Princess Pyria is able to find out whether there is any way to send you home.”

So, that was it. He considered them dead weight.

Dean had picked up on it, too. “Look, we get it. You don’t know enough about us to know if you can count on us in a fight. But we don’t sit around waiting for someone else to save us. Sam’s a good researcher if your princess needs help. And if I need to ride a horse, I’ll ride a horse. But neither of us is going to sit in this room while some hopped-up vengeful spirit takes over the world. Because that’s not what we do.”

Allanon looked from Dean to Sam and back, evaluating. Reading their minds, for all Sam knew. But it wasn’t something it was likely to do any good to complain about, and if it helped the Druid decide that they were not useless, it was just as well.

“Very well. In the morning you can go down to the training yard and see what you can make of the weapons they have available. Then perhaps the stable master can find horses for men who _don’t_ ride, if you care to come to Fall Spike.” He turned to Sam. “Pyria can manage well enough on her own.”

“I’ll stick with Dean then,” Sam said, wondering, as quietly as he could, if there had been a trace of jealousy behind Allanon’s words.

Dean, not unexpectedly, wondered out loud. “She likes you, you know. I mean _likes_ likes you.”

“That’s no business of yours,” Allanon said darkly.

“Maybe not,” Dean said. “But since we’re stuck being partners for the foreseeable future, I’ve got to say that the glowering is going to get annoying.”

“What possible connection is there between the princess and my attitude towards you?”

“Seriously?” Dean asked. But the Druid simply glared. It seemed impossible, Sam thought, that a mind-reader could fail to understand what Dean was implying. Unless Druids were required to be celibate or something...

“I think my brother is trying to hint that your temper would improve if you—”

“Got laid,” Dean said, before Sam could come up with a gentler euphemism. “You seriously need to get laid.”

Sam wondered for an instant whether there would be a fight, Allanon’s glare was so fiery. Instead, the Druid turned and stalked out of the room.

“I’m right,” Dean said, for Sam’s benefit.

“Wow, do you really want to get this guy pissed off at you? Our only way home?”

“We don’t know that.”

“If you’ve got an idea that doesn’t somehow involve Elfstones, I’m all ears.”

Dean paced around the room. “The time portal?”

“Okay, assume we’re only in the future, not a different dimension. Do you think that spell has enough power to carry us three thousand years?” At Dean’s grimace, Sam went on, “We can’t call Cas.”

“We could. I mean, he’s had three thousand years to beat Lucifer, right?”

“Do you really want to take that chance? Do you really want to risk this situation becoming a thousand times worse than it already is?”

“What about Crowley?” Although the expression on Dean’s face showed that he knew all too well what Sam’s reaction was likely to be.

“Dean, do you not get it? We’re talking three _thousand_ years. Anything could have happened in that length of time. And we don’t have a clue. Or any resources, at this point, that aren’t linked to this Druid.”

“Which sucks,” Dean said. “The guy’s got a stick up his ass.”

“The guy’s facing a whole crew of vengeful spirits who have figured out how to take over the world. Did you not pick up on the fact that people are being systematically murdered on his watch and he hasn’t been able to stop it?”

“Oh come on, you don’t like him?”

“Honestly, I feel kind of sorry for him. As far as I tell, there’s just him. No other Druids. No fellow hunters. And no resources to turn to aside from a woman who’s got a thing for him but that he might not even be allowed to have a relationship with.”

“Not allowed?” Dean said, puzzled.

“Um, Dean, she’s the king’s sister, for starters. Do we know whether there are any rules about that here?”

“Well, no,” Dean admitted. “But I didn’t get the impression that this king is snooty enough to tell his sister who she can like.”

“But you don’t _know_. And that’s only what we don’t know about _Elven royalty_. Do you have any idea what rules Druids might have?”

“Wait, you mean...” Dean finally caught on, his expression becoming pained. “As in no hanky panky allowed?”

“It’s possible,” Sam said. “And if so, you just rubbed it in his face.”

“Okay, so, bad move, I admit it. But that does not make the guy any easier to put up with.”

“Look," Sam said earnestly, "we can’t assume that we know _anything_ here. Until we get more information about the Black Elfstone and can figure out how we got here and how to get back, we need to keep our eyes and ears open and our mouths shut.”

“Alright, I get it.” Dean looked around the room—a sort of sparsely furnished living room. “Man, no TV, no beer....”

“Considering what you volunteered us for tomorrow, it’s probably better if we just get some sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Allanon’s POV next chapter. :~D


	7. Man in Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this update taking such a very long time. My best friend came to visit for two weeks in June, and while that was a really good thing, it was distracting. And then (because the universe can’t seem to let well enough alone), I had to deal with back-stabbing co-workers, which put my self-esteem right into the toilet. To top it all off, I’ve been dealing with a flare-up of my fibromyalgia this summer. As a result, it’s been a couple of months since I’ve written anything or have even been able to bring myself to edit and post a new chapter.
> 
> It doesn’t help that this chapter will probably prove disappointing. It certainly disappointed me! I’ve never tried to write smut from a male POV before, and it was rather distressing to find that Allanon, for whatever reason, was not particularly forthcoming with smutty details. I thought about trying to get around the problem by writing this scene from Pyria’s POV, but thus far she refuses to talk to me at all. Anyway, perhaps we can just chalk this up to Allanon being too much of a gentleman and let our own imaginations fill in the details. *sighs*

Allanon stalked through the darkened corridors of the palace, wishing for an easier solution than strangling Dean Winchester—which would, of course, not really help at all. Because despite the man’s uncouth way of speaking, he had cut straight to the guts of the problem.

It had been easier at other times, during earlier awakenings. With Bremen’s warnings about not forming any kind of permanent relationships—since they could not be permanent at all—niggling at the back of his mind, it had been easiest to allow himself to be seduced for a night by a tavern wench or a widowed tradeswoman who would pretend that she wanted nothing more from him than the temporary enjoyment of a mysterious soldier’s body in her bed. The pretense, and the sure knowledge that he wasn’t the first, nor would he be the last, had made it possible to walk away with relief instead of guilt.

That wasn’t going to be possible now.

It wasn’t even possible to pretend that Pyria’s joy at his return was simply eagerness to share what she’d discovered. He was not sure that it would be possible even if he couldn’t read her thoughts, shining clear and bright, her emotions a whispered call that sought a forbidden echo in his own heart. The elder Winchester had seen it, though he had never met her before.

Pyria was in love with him, whether it was wise or not, whether he loved her back or not. She hoped he did. But she was no girl, her head spinning with some intense but fleeting admiration. And no tavern wench—or army commander—whose chief interest lay in what was under his armor and clothing.

Aine’s words about scholars and soldiers were as much attributable to his aunt as his father. If the Druid had left her alone to search the archives for his answers, returning only when she sent word that she had found something, it was likely enough that she would have dismissed her irrational feelings at their first meeting as the trick of a foolish, solitary heart.

But he hadn’t simply left, not immediately. He had told himself that another pair of eyes would speed the work. That his magic might somehow aid the search. That this might be one of the few opportunities he would ever have to breathe in the dusty scent of old books and pore over ancient records, pretending to be the scholar he had dreamed of becoming, if only for a little while, before the destruction at Paranor had stripped away most of his choices and the last appearance of the Warlock Lord had left him, of necessity, a warrior.

So he had stayed more often than he should have, sharing and appreciating her work, denying that there was any risk of attachment to this woman who lived among books. A woman who showed no intention at all of throwing herself at a man who gave no sign of having shared that irrational moment. And each time he’d had to leave, each time he had gone out to try to find and protect a Shannara heir, he had told himself that distance would erase feelings he couldn’t afford to indulge. That she would, in any case, come to despise him for his repeated failures at that task. He could not afford, either, the glimmer of guilt that he was failing her personally, rather than failing Bremen and failing the Four Lands.

That unguarded moment of shared victory at their mutual triumphs had revealed feelings that he hadn’t intended to reveal to her.

It wasn’t merely that she was Eventine’s sister—as off-limits as any woman could be to a casual tryst with the man her brother was relying on to help save his kingdom. It was that she was not a woman he could sleep with and then forget. Regardless of how insistently his body, or his rude companion, was suggesting otherwise.

Which made his current destination all the more ironic, he chided himself as he opened the archive door and slipped inside. But Pyria would not be here—

“Who’s there?” Her voice emerged from an area near the back, where light glowed unexpectedly among the shelves, but her footsteps approached, hesitant but purposeful.

“Me.” He couldn’t hide a hint of a smile as she came fully into view; the weapon she had chosen of necessity was a bronze book weight.

“Allanon,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing. I thought you were supposed to be resting.”

“I was.” She lowered the weight to the top of a nearby case. “I kept trying to work out the best places to start researching the Elfstones, and after a while it made more sense to just do it instead of thinking about it. What excuse do you have?”

“Maps,” Allanon admitted. “I need to know every detail I can about the area around Fall Spike.”

“In case there’s a battle.” Her voice dropped to a note of despair.

“A battle would be better than what’s been waiting for me up to now. A sword does nothing to protect a corpse.”

“But corpses can’t tear you apart.” She shuddered, her thoughts full of claws, wings, and teeth.

“Where did you see that?” he asked, remembering too late that he had been making an unusual effort not to reveal that ability to her, to spare her pride, if nothing else.

“I found a sketchbook from Jerle Shannara’s...time...” she trailed off as realization dawned. “Did you just—?”

“See what you were imagining?” he said ruefully.

The sarcastic corner of Pyria’s mouth twisted. “My brother said you could read his thoughts. I thought he was being metaphorical.”

“It might be better for you to think of it as metaphorical.” Although there was no bringing that horse back to its stable.

“Where’s the fun in that?” She grinned, but there was something sardonic in it. “I’ve been wondering if I would ever get to see you do magic.”

“All things considered, it’s better if you don’t. Magic carries too high a price to use it casually, without dire need.”

“You had a dire need to read my thoughts?”

“That,” he sighed, “is a gift. A manifestation of the magic I was born with. I can no more remain unaware of people’s thoughts than you can close out the colors you see or the voices you hear.”

“You could have the decency to close your eyes.”

“Would you stumble around constantly with your eyes closed?”

She looked away. “I feel very foolish. Have you been laughing at me to yourself?”

“No. You have no cause to be ashamed. You are far better than most at hiding thoughts you wish to keep secret.”

“That’s not much consolation when I haven’t been trying very hard.” She gazed mournfully up at the shadowed ceiling. “I thought I had outgrown this sort of thing.”

A flood of memories swept painfully through her thoughts—memories she had either concealed well or simply hadn’t been thinking about when she was near him. The images were jumbled, but the gist of it was that she had fallen hard for one of her father’s generals, who had taken much too long to tell her that he didn’t return her feelings. Her father had tried to warn her, but she had protested her determination to share her life with the object of her affection...until that object had finally made it plain that she held no interest of that kind for him.

“I do not lack interest in you,” Allanon found himself saying, which was not at all what he had intended.

“And yet?” she said, reading his expression as clearly as he read her thoughts. _She’s as cynical as I am_.

“I have nothing to offer you. I am nothing more than you see standing here, apart from my magic, and that takes its own toll. Even the horse I ride is due to your brother’s generosity.”

“You are a good man.”

“Is that so rare?” He let the hint of a skeptical smile show.

“You know it is,” she said seriously. “How many men would take the risks you take? Endure seeing the things you’ve seen?”

“Every soldier—”

“They have a duty,” Pyria interrupted fiercely.

“So do I.”

She stared determinedly into his eyes. “You’re the last Druid. Who would hold you accountable if you walked away?”

The intensity of her feelings was strong enough that it took a moment for him to speak, and when he did, the words came out hoarsely. “I would.”

“That’s what I mean,” she said. And suddenly her mouth was on his, in spite of her fear that he would pull away. As he should, for her sake. But his will to do so evaporated like rain on desert stone.

It was she, finally, who pulled back just far enough to look again into his eyes. “I shouldn’t ask more than you can give,” she said. Her thoughts were a chaotic tangle of threads: that his sense of duty might forbid a relationship; that he might not care for her as much as she did for him; that she did not want to cling to the half-hearted feelings he might be willing to give her; that she would, if that was all she could have.

“I’m the one who should be saying that. For all you pretend otherwise, you are a princess.” He knew she hated to be reminded of that fact, but if he could make her angry enough to turn away from him, to doubt the strength of her feelings, he could avoid hurting her with a rejection that he was less and less certain he could give.

“Do you think that matters to me?” She was angry, but not enough.

“What would your brother say?”

“It’s none of my brother’s business.” Perhaps it was a mistake to make her angry. The fire in her eyes threatened to melt the remaining wards around his heart.

“He might not agree,” Allanon said, making one more attempt to turn her from a soul-pledging that might prove disastrous for them both. “He is the king, and I require his trust in order to accomplish my tasks. How much will he trust me if I seduce his sister?”

“Is that all this is to you? Seducing the king’s sister?” The pain in her voice and her eyes showed that she still had an iron thread of self-respect. But her thoughts made him uncertain what she would do, even if he said yes.

And it would be a lie. “No,” he whispered.

It was longer still before their lips parted again, and this time it was Allanon who drew back, concerned that the demands his body was making were more than he should ask of her yet.

Or more than he should surrender to? Her intentions were disturbingly plain, the one clear thing in her thoughts. She clasped his hand with a conspiratorial grin and began leading him back to where she had been working.

The back of the archive chamber was lined with vaults, designed to protect the most fragile and valuable manuscripts from any disaster short of complete collapse of the palace. A spiral staircase led up to a second floor full of shelves and cabinets, but her destination was an unremarkable door that would let into the space above the vaults.

The room behind the door was, unexpectedly, hardly more than a closet, with little inside but a narrow bed, made up with once-rich but now-shabby coverlets.

“Is this where you pretend not to be a princess?”

“Don’t tease,” Pyria chided, drawing him into her arms again. “This is where I fall over when the climb up to my room is too much to face. There are no servants to gossip and no one to claim that anything is happening here but research.”

“Are you certain you want things to go this far, this quickly?” It would be agonizing to leave her now, but worse yet if she decided that she was not ready, after all, for everything promised by her occasional bed, too narrow for two to lie upon except on each other.

“I thought you could read my thoughts.” She was teasing now.

“They’re less clear. And more difficult to concentrate on,” he admitted.

“Well, that’s something then.”  She grinned, almost sadly, and pressed her hand to the side of his face. “Are you worried that I’m a shrinking virgin? Because I’m not.”

There was pain in that, although little else was clear. And he was terrified suddenly of hurting her with things he did not know. “Tell me.”

“What?” Her eyes widened. “Why would you possibly want to know—”

“I want you tell me things of your own free will.” He had not realized until this moment how much he longed for that gift from another soul, and most of all from her. “Tell me things you would tell no one else.”

She stared deep into his eyes, and somehow, even without the ability to read his thoughts, she understood. She pressed her forehead against his chest, as if she couldn’t speak the words otherwise.

“It wasn’t the first man I fell in love with. Thank goodness for that. But after I found out he didn’t want me, I...I needed to prove to myself that I wasn’t...undesirable.” She gave a short, bitter chuckle. “I found a young soldier, even younger than I was, and took him to my bed. Of course, when it turned out that he cared more for me than I did for him, I had a taste of my own medicine. So I fled here. Not from heartache, as my brother tells it, but from shame.”

“You’ve made far more of it than simply punishing yourself.”

“Indeed. That didn’t last long. I love what I do, connecting with people who lived hundreds of years ago. Looking into their thoughts, in a sense.” She smirked up at him.

_What would she think if she knew the truth about me?_ he wondered uneasily.

“Your turn," she said, and at his apparent hesitation, added, “This was your idea.”

He ought to have felt chagrin when he realized what she was actually asking, but instead he chiefly felt relief. “My parents had taken up a trading route when I was seven or eight years old. There was a girl in one of the cities we passed through that I became friends with. She was the only person who knew that I could see people’s thoughts. The ability came upon me in late childhood, but I had the sense to hide it as well as I could, from everyone but her. And when we reached a certain age, we shared our urgent curiosity the same way we had shared everything else.”

He had not realized how deeply he was frowning until Pyria touched the corner of his mouth. She said, “Why do I have the feeling this story ends badly?”

“Her parents found out. And in the midst of trying to convince them that it wasn’t her fault, I revealed my secret.”

“And that didn’t go over well?” Pyria guessed.

“ _You_ are uncomfortable with the idea, despite the fact that you know that I’m a Druid and expect me to do magic. These were ordinary people, and I was a boy of 14; a boy who already seemed to know more than he should. And I was too stubbornly honest to deny the truth once it was known.”

“What happened?”

“My parents abandoned me.” He had told no one these things since Bremen. It had never seemed important for anyone to know who he had been before he became who he was now. “They were afraid that no one would do business with them if I was there. Afraid of me themselves.”

“How cruel!”

Her fierceness on his behalf ran the most pleasant sensation across his mind that he had ever known. It was followed by a surge of desperation: he could not lose this woman.

“It was a long time ago.” Just how long, he now decided firmly, he was not prepared to tell her. “Eventually my mentor found me and trained me to be a Druid.”

_Falling in love is thing no Druid can afford, least of all you, who may be the last of our order_. Bremen’s words had seemed a minor burden when he spoken them, to a youth whose main concern had been the threat of a celibacy he had been ill-prepared to endure. Now they were a memory more unwelcome than anything he had told Pyria.

“And your duties brought you to me,” she said, and leaned in to kiss him again.

He let her blot out the memory.

 ***

She was more of a virgin than she had admitted—with only a soldier boy, and her books, and her imagination in the dark to make her otherwise—but he did not let her know that. Nor did he tell her how, even in a chaos of thoughts, he could read enough to know how best to please her. Because it would not have pleased her to know that, and the thing he wanted most in the world was to please her—not as a mutual obligation between lovers, but as a gift to a woman who ought to know how she is adored.

He had unplaited her hair, releasing it to fall in dark glory. He had let her unbuckle every piece of his armor, which was a thing he had never allowed any woman before, regardless of how much they had wished to. He had been more gentle than he had ever needed to be, although she had not failed of the promise of passion that the fire in her eyes had given. And he had never felt such a deep pang of anguish, when he lay breathless afterward, at knowing how impossible it was to go on holding her forever.

“Does it still hurt?” That was another question no one else had asked, gingerly tracing the runes carved into his flesh.

“For a long time, it did. But now it’s only when I have to reach that far for my magic.”

“Was it worth that much pain?” She winced, her imagination conjuring levels of agony that were slight compared to the reality. But he did not tell her that either.

“The marks let me draw upon the magic that was infused into the earth when the worlds were joined. Without them, I would be little more than an ordinary man with the dubious power to read thoughts.”

“You could never be ordinary.”

Which, of course, was now the problem. A problem that every fastened buckle only reinforced, when they had spent as much time as they dared half-drowsing together in this temporary sanctuary. A problem that seemed all the more unsolvable as she plaited her hair and found the maps he needed, and then went on about her own research while he studied them. A problem that a fleeting kiss on her bowed forehead, when he left near dawn, could only make worse.

 ***

 The Winchester brothers were already awake, performing strengthening exercises, although they stopped when Allanon came in.

“You slept with her,” Dean concluded, grinning.

“Dean!” Sam said, frowning.

It was discouraging to note that the compulsion to wring Dean’s neck had diminished to a passing thought.

“I should not have.” All of the reasons, which had been easy to ignore in Pyria’s presence, clamored into his mind.

“What’s the problem?” Dean sobered, his thoughts filling with a conglomeration of disasters, mercifully blurry, aside from the fear that they might end up having to flee the palace.

“Because it endangers my mission.” He strode to the window, trying to focus on the actions that were necessary today, instead of a future that was impossible.

“How so?” Dean was genuinely puzzled. “If the chick isn’t the monster,” he extended a finger, “and she’s not thing the monster wants to have for breakfast,” he extended another, “I don’t see the problem.”

“Does he ever stop talking?” Allanon directed the question at Sam.

“Yeah, not so much,” Sam said.

“Hey!” Dean protested.

“Distractions are dangerous,” Allanon said, as much to himself as to the brothers, trying to pin the problem down in words. “I can’t protect a Shannara heir when my thoughts are taken up with protecting Pyria.”

There was silence from the brothers. And images. And pain. The pain was not encouraging.

“I get that,” Dean said finally. He looked at Sam. “We both do.”

“She’s safe here, isn’t she?” Sam asked.

“In theory, yes. The Black Watch guards the palace. But I’m not merely concerned with her physical safety. I fear that by acknowledging what I feel for her, I have implied promises I that I cannot keep.”

Dean winced visibly. “That bites, dude.”

Another silence fell, this time a merciful one. Blessing it, Allanon retreated to clean up.

***

When he returned, the brothers were pulling on the thin flannel jackets they wore.

“So what’s the plan for today?” Sam asked.

“You two will train and prepare for the journey to Fall Spike. I must try to find out if there’s a child in this city who is an unknown heir of Shannara.”

“About that,” Dean said. “You can’t pit a little kid against a vengeful spirit with that kind of power.”

“I don’t intend to, not if I have any other choice.”

“There’s always another choice,” Dean said.

Allanon didn’t bother to point out that Dean’s own memories showed that his assertion was manifestly not true.

“A servant will come with breakfast. He can direct you to the training yard. Try not to get into trouble while I’m gone.”

With the echo of Dean’s protesting thoughts following him, Allanon left on the least propitious search he had yet undertaken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I can start updating more regularly again. It helps to know that people are interested in the story (hint, hint).

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutouts to Tempest2004 for introducing me to AoOO and baar_ur for beta-reading.
> 
> Authors live for comments. Just saying.


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